Fears
by Sir Miles
Summary: "It's not our fears that make us who we are . . ." In the midst of his nightmares, Jak discovers he is not alone in the world. (Jak 3)


Jak was running. Behind him he could hear a cacophony of pounding feet and ferocious snarls mixed in with an electronic buzzing. It seemed like everyone was after him tonight. Daxter was crouched low on his shoulder, urging him on. But Jak was tiring.

It seemed as if they had already run through the entirety of Haven City, and yet they could not seem to find shelter. Jak's weapon had long since run out of ammunition, and his hands and feet were bloody and numb from use. The moon hung low in the eastern sky, the sliver of light not enough to disperse the gloom of the dark city.

"C'mon, Jak, they're gaining on us! Run!" Daxter's urgent cry came in Jak's ear. But, try as he might, his feet seemed to be slowing down, not speeding up. He could sense presences near him now, though whether they were elf or beast or bot he couldn't say. And he dared not look behind him. Desperately, he lunged forward, as if another inch could be enough to save him—

"Jak!" He looked up to find himself staring at Torn. The resistance leader's face was grim. "Where have you been? KG patrols have been closing in on this place—"

"We're being chased!" Jak breathlessly interrupted with the warning. He threw a hand behind him to point.

But Torn acted as if he hadn't heard him, hadn't even seen. "—and if something isn't done, they're gonna flush out the entire Underground!"

What was wrong with Torn? They needed to move, _now!_

But Torn was pacing, now, his face grim. And what was Daxter doing on the table, drawing on the map with a marker? And . . . where had all of the noise gone?

With a jolt, Jak realized he was standing in the Underground hideout. And there were no enemies nearby.

"Jak, I need you to go intercept the KG patrols before they get close. Lead them to several decoy locations we've set up so we can ambush them—_Stop that!_" Torn swept a hand across the table and knocked Daxter onto the floor. The orange ottsel shook his head, dazed.

This wasn't making sense. Jak felt caught in a maelstrom of emotions: confusion, adrenaline, and the instinct to fight surged through his body. His ears began to hum, like the sound of a zoomer in the distance.

"Did you hear what I said, Jak?" Torn was glaring at him, now.

Jak shook his head at him helplessly, unable to find the words. He didn't understand!

"Then get going!" Coming around the table, Torn gave him a shove towards the door. Caught off balance, Jak stumbled—

—into Samos. Or, rather, two Samoses. "Jak!" they said in unison, "It's about time you showed up!" They shook their heads identically, and the bird perched on older Samos' head rose up to flutter about.

Jak opened his mouth to explain . . . something . . . but Daxter—once again perched on his shoulder—beat him to it. "Can it, green stuffs! Jak's been busy doing everyone's dirty work!"

Older Samos glared at Daxter. "And what have _you_ been doing, then?" he retorted. At the same time, Younger Samos beckoned to Jak urgently. "I've been monitoring the eco levels in the city, and it seems they've begun to fluctuate wildly." He launched into an explanation of the problem, but Jak was no longer listening. The humming in his ears had grown louder, bringing with it the beginnings of a headache. He still felt lost, confused. Looking around, he could see that he was now standing in Haven Forest. When had he gotten here? What had happened to Torn?

"Focus, Jak! This is serious!" Older Samos was glaring at him. Younger Samos added, "Jak, it's imperative that you get to the bottom of this!"

The words pounded at him as if trying to knock him down. Unable to regain his mental balance, Jak felt as if he were losing this battle. Somehow he found a quiet sliver of voice. "I can't."

But the Samoses hadn't heard. Or they didn't care. Or maybe they weren't really here at all. The humming was loud, now: a zoomer about to crash. All of his nerves on high alert, Jak whirled around to avoid the collision.

"Jak, my boy!" It wasn't a zoomer, it was Krew. And the forest had become the Naughty Ottsel—no, it was still Krew's place, not Daxter's. Metalhead trophies glared down at him, their eyes glassy, their forehead gems gleaming. And Krew's bulk loomed over him, the gross weight struggling against sturdy buttons. "I need you to take that ruby key you found and open the door in the Underport. I've made a deal with the Metalheads, and they're getting impatient."

Despair mixed with confusion in Jak's mind. He took a step backward, and suddenly his gun was in his hand. "No." His ability to speak was coming back, but his tone lacked force.

He saw Krew's eyes widen, then narrow into an angry expression. "It wouldn't be wise to cross me, Jak," he threatened. "There might be consequences, you know."

And suddenly Jak noticed that Daxter was no longer on his shoulder. Krew laughed, a deep, raspy sound that blended with the zoomer hum. Only now it was no longer a zoomer but the sound of Metalheads growling in the distance. And the heavy tread of Krimzon Guard boots. And the electronic hum of robots. He tried to call for Daxter, but he couldn't hear his own voice through the roar in his ears. Krew loomed large in front of him, blocking his vision. "Don't make me angry, Jak! Open that door!"

"Jak!" The two Samoses spoke in unison. "Pay attention!"

"Are you still here, Jak?" Torn demanded.

The noise was too much. Jak backed up until he hit the wall, his gun raised in front of him. But he didn't know what to shoot. The danger was all around him and yet nowhere. And the voices kept calling his name, kept demanding things he could not give. He didn't understand what was going on, and he could not find his friend.

"Jak!"

"Jak!"

"Jak!"

He felt the surge of dark eco within him, bubbling up from the depths of his being. It came fast and strong, taking over what little control he'd had. He felt as if he were falling, drowning in a pit of darkness. And struggling upward, clawing out of the pit, came a powerful monster.

"Jak!"

"Jak!"

"Jak!"

Dark Jak.

"_No!_"

Jak awoke in a sweat, his hands scrambling for the gun he always kept by his side. It wasn't there. Jerking into a sitting position, he blinked at the room around him.

He wasn't in the Underground, or the forest, or even Haven City. Instead, he was in a pale, stone-walled room—_Spargus,_ he realized. He felt himself relax a bit as his surroundings became familiar.

"Jak?"

He jerked at the word and turned to see Damas, king of Spargus. And . . . "Daxter?" The orange ottsel was sitting, of all places, on Damas' shoulder. Both king and ottsel were looking at Jak with almost matching concerned expressions.

"Are you all right, Jak?" It was Damas who had spoken. Seeing that he was awake, Daxter climbed down the king's arm and clung to Jak's tunic. Damas took a step back to give him some room. "You were yelling in your sleep," he explained, "and Daxter was worried about you."

From their expressions, Jak suspected that "worried" was a bit of an understatement. What was Damas doing here? Had Daxter gone to get him? It was a little embarrassing to think he might have caused such a stir. He rested a hand on Daxter to hold him steady as he propped himself up in a more comfortable sitting position. "I . . . guess I had a nightmare," he confessed quietly. The memories of his dream were vivid, and he did not want to dwell on them.

There must have been something strange in his tone because Damas moved to the bed and sat down on its edge. Within the king's usual stiffness there was a hint of something else, something . . . softer. "Jak, I know you've been through a lot lately."

The words made Jak flinch. Did Damas think he was weak? "I can handle it."

The king frowned, then shook his head as if to clear it. He sighed. When he spoke again, his voice held the same distant wistfulness that Jak had heard before. At times like that, Jak wondered what memories were conjured in the king's mind. "Everyone's afraid of something, Jak."

Damas _looked_ at Jak, then, and there was a knowing glint in his eye. "It's not our fears that make us who we are, but what we do about them."

It was as if he had read Jak's thoughts—had read his nightmare. Jak suddenly wondered if Damas ever had nightmares. A warrior king must have experienced plenty of things to have nightmares about. He opened his mouth to ask Damas . . . but stopped. Somehow, he thought he already knew the answer.

And somehow the king's words helped. The dreams, his fears—they existed, but they did not control him. Only Jak could choose what he would do. Only Jak could choose who he wanted to be.

He nodded. A moment later, Damas nodded in return. As the king rose from the bed, Jak looked at his best friend. "Sorry to worry you, Dax."

The ottsel gave him a big grin. "No problemo, buddy! I'm just glad you woke up!" His orange ears twitched. "If you hadn't, Damas would have made me fight in the arena by myself!" He pantomimed an exaggerated death. Jak smiled, feeling the night's fear slip away.

And out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Damas, watching them. Smiling.


End file.
